Constance floated, nude, in the recovery gel, listening to her breathing in the respirator strapped to her face, and remembered. The nutrient rich, not quite non-Newtonian fluid supported her as it fed the synth-skin that had been applied over eighty percent of her body. It covered seven holes in her torso that traitor small arms had managed to penetrate the ceramite of her armor, due to it's weakened state. Both legs, that had been badly burned in the explosion that had weakened her armor enough for small arms to penetrate it, were now as shapely and fulsome as they had been before she'd started the battle.

Constance chuckled at her folly, and regretted it as she was still quite sore. Using the helmet as a blast shield to be able to stand on the shape charge and get out of the tunnel before the explosion had leveled it had mostly worked. It had thrown her high enough that the last gasps of a jump pack she had scavenged off a dead Space Marine pulled her clear of the pit and tunnel system that was infested with the chaos spawn that had been leading the people into heresy. It had broken both of her legs and set her on fire, but it got her clear of the nightmare of fire and chaos below. She was alive enough that Sister Melissa of the Order of the Cleansing Water had had enough to 'work on' as she had put it to keep her alive and get her to a hospital ship. Still, the Heretics had been purged, the nameless planet they had been on was once more in the fold of the Imperium of Man, and Constance De La Concordia lived to fight another day for her Emperor.

“I thirst,” she muttered into the mask and the servitor heard, pressing the control to extend the tube to her lips so she could drink. The water was cold, and had the soft, citrus tang of nutrient additives that burned her throat a bit as she swallowed them. Constance was fifty, though the body that floated in the gel didn't look like it was thirty yet; her breasts were still high and firm, her muscle hard and strong from years of training and exercise, and every month she was reminded of her body and it's more basic needs no matter what she was doing other wise. Around her head floated a halo of ebony tresses in the fluid without a trace of gray so that only her deep, endless blue eyes gave away her age as someone far older than the face they looked out of.

In the gel, she hummed her favorite hymn and forced herself to remember every mistake she had made, and the Emperor knew there were many to remember. She remembered realizing they had lost the element of surprise and the sin of her pride deciding to continue with the operation. She remembered her hesitation when she had first entered the city, seeing the terrified face of the little girl and her mother, begging her for mercy. She remembered how heavy the bolter in her hand had felt as she stared into the eyes of a girl, not more than five in the arms of her mother who was terrified of seeing the end of her short life.

She remembered giving the order for the sisters under her command and the guardsmen they accompanied to restrain their hands against the populace, to use mercy instead of purging the heretics with the fire and bolter blasts they deserved. She remembered comforting the guardsman, a girl not yet twenty, as she died, her legs and pelvis destroyed by a land mine, as her cries of not wanting to die became less and less frantic, until they finally stopped altogether. She remembered the rage of her squad mates as the rebel who had planted the mine was dragged before her, and she saw again the little girl and her mother she had spared days earlier. The hymn died on her lips as the first tear wormed its way out of her eye against the gel onto her cheek.

Constance remembered the flash of the muzzle blast in the girls eyes as she executed her mother, and then the girl.

In the gel, Constance De La Concordia, Sister of the Adepta Sororitas, Palatine of the Order of the Valorous Heart, wept for her sins and begged the Emperor to forgive her. Because as she cried, she couldn't be sure if she wept for the guardsman, cut down in her prime in the Emperor's service or the little girl born into a heresy she had no control over, or for herself for not knowing.

Canoness-Preceptor Abigail Winters looked out the window of her office that over looked the convent's ornamental garden. The Convent of the Healing Heart had been established on Banudan for a thousand years, making the buildings old and comforting to the sisters who came here to convalesce and recover from their wounds. Physical wounds, of course, were much easier to heal than mental ones. Abigail, honoring her vow to the Canoness-Preceptor before her, was diligent in the upkeep of the garden, with it's flowers and trees from a thousand different worlds. She found it was of great aide to the sisters whose minds were troubled to sit in the beauty of flowers and reconnect with the life that they fought to protect.

In particular, Abigail worried about the woman she watched now, dressed in the pure white robe of a supplicant, her raven's wing hair setting her apart as she knelt on the earth and tended the rose bush before her. Winters was purposefully ignoring the Inquisitor in her office behind her, a loathsome, oily man with the face of a ferret who still managed to appear to be a boy, wearing his father's uniform. Finally, after many minutes of watching the other woman tend the plant, Winters made up her mind. “She's not ready.”

“Reverend Mother, surely...” the Inquisitor began, but she silenced him with a soft gesture.

“Don't speak,” she commanded. “For two hundred years, I have served here and tended to the sick of body and of mind, and I tell you, Sister De La Concordia is not up to a mission of this magnitude. And if you force my hand, Inquisitor, if you disregard the warnings I give you, all that you fear may come to pass. How will you explain that to the Inquistorium?”

The ring of boots on flagstone caused a chill to run up the Canoness-Preceptor' spine as the Inquisitor crossed, unbidden, from before her desk to standing beside her at the window. “If you can document some physical or mental defect that makes Sister De La Concordia unfit to serve her Emperor, then I will depart at once,” the nasty little man declared snidely.

“So, either I ruin the record of a Sister with thirty years of solid, meritorious service, or I risk the fall of an entire system because you have fixated on Sister De La Concordia?”

Abigail felt the oily smile on his pinched face. “My conscience is clear. I sought the best sister for this mission and her name was chosen.”

She turned to stare icily at the hatched faced man under the wide brimmed service cap. “If I thought for an instant I could make a case of your being a heretic or a mutant, or a traitor, I would kill you with my bare hands right now.” The pinched smile got wider.

“But as I am alive, you admit my motives are pure and my logic unassailable. The Rite of Selection chose Constance De La Concordia. The Emperor chose Constance De La Concordia. Who are you to defy Him, Canoness-Preceptor Winters?” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “So, let us go and you can introduce me to the Palatine.”

“Sit,” the Canoness-Preceptor commanded, raising an imperious hand to point at the chair before her desk. The Inquisitor realized the time for pressing his luck had ended, and so bowed before he went to the chair as commanded. “I shall return,” Abigail finished, as she swept out of the room and closed her office door firmly as she did so. “Watch him,” she commanded her adjutant, then tried to dismiss the revulsion from her mind and walked down the tower steps to the cloister and its entrance to the garden. The heavy air of the Convent became light as the competing smells of the flowers and the soft song of birds greeting the Canoness-Preceptor as she walked lightly through the garden, nodding to the Sisters of her Convent as she did so. Finally, her feet brought her to the body of the sister she worried about and she stopped to breath in the delicate perfume of the roses.

“Ave Imperator, Canoness-Preceptor,” the Palatine greeted as she most humbly subjugated her self, kneeling on the soft grass at Abigail's feet.

“Ave Imperator, Palatine Constance,” she replied, then reached down to gently pull the younger woman to her feet. “Will you walk with me, Sister?”

“Canoness-Preceptor, again, and most humbly, I entreat you to grant my request of Repentia, that I may atone for my sins.”

“Do not make me scold you, Constance,” the Canoness warned, taking the other woman's elbow and directing her deeper into the garden.

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Constance replied, unknowingly choosing, as the Inquisitor had, to use the old title for the Canoness-Preceptor.

For a long moment, the women said nothing, merely walking through the garden slowly, before at last Abigail said, “Mistakes are not sins, Constance. Rarely are we allowed the easy road to atone for them. You confessed your faults to me, and I absolved you of them. We shall speak no more of this.”

“Yes, Canoness-Preceptor.” Abigail took an appraising look of the woman next to her. Winters' hair was white now, and there were lines and wrinkles even the greatest rejuvenation treatments could not completely wash away, but despite that, she saw herself in Constance De La Concordia, and that warmed her heart. She only prayed that the younger woman was as tough as Abigail had been at her age. The Canoness reached into the small purse the hung from her belt and handed something to the younger woman.

“What do you see?”

Constance looked down at the object in her hand and, at first blush, started to laugh, thinking it a child's toy shaped like a bolter pistol. Then the weight of the object in her hand told her it was far too heavy to be a toy. Training took hold and she began to treat the object as if it were a live weapon, and despite the magazine well being empty she pulled the action open to insure it was safe. “What is this?” she demanded.

“It is a Bolter,” Winters declared simply.

“I've never seen one this small!” Constance replied. She found the grip comfortable in her hand and it pointed naturally, as she raised it to look down the sights. “Was it recently found? It's in magnificent condition.”

Abigail's gray eyes found Constance's blue ones. “It's new,” she declared with great weight. It took only a moment for the gravity of the statement to pierce Constance's mind and her eyes went wide with shock as she quickly lowered the pistol as though she had been brandishing a state treasure and looked about to see if she had been seen. She looked again at the device, reading in High Gothic what had been stamped into the steel of the Receiver. Imperial Arms Model of 111 M42 and New Atlanta, Thuria on the other side.

“Do you mean...?”

“I mean, new,” the Canoness told her. “For the first time perhaps since before the Emperor sat on the Golden Throne, a new design has been made into a new device.”

“But...but, surely the machine spirits...”

“I can be sure of nothing,” Abigail told her sister. “Save that what you hold in your hands works. I've fired it myself. It's only forty caliber, not as strong as even our Cherub Pattern pistols, but I can shoot it out of my armor...”

“By the Emperor!” Constance swore softly.

“And it's half the size.” The Canoness sighed and looked away. “Listen to me very carefully, sister. A year ago, Duke Cameron of House Wren, became the Sovereign Prince of Planet Thuria. As soon as the ink was dry on his accolade of principality he began to reach out to members of the Adeptus Mechanicus, to make forge worlds on the moons of Thuria. Thousands, perhaps millions of the Adeptus Mechanicus have flocked to his banner. Now, the Inquisition has discovered that.”

Constance looked at the pistol in her hands, then handed it back to the Canoness who returned it to her purse. “The Inquisition thinks Duke Cameron is a heretic? Why? If he has found a way to coax new designs from the Machine Priests he would be a Hero of the Empire!”

Abigail arched an eyebrow at her patient. “Or a fool, who perhaps thinks he could challenge the Emperor.”

“I heard whispers of problems on...my last assignment...for months before we even began training for our operations to cleanse it, but I've never heard of this Duke Cameron. Suddenly his loyalty is in question because of that device, or is it the jealousy of others wishing his success was theirs?”

Winters sighed and realized why the Rite had selected Constance. “Never forget that Jealousy is the first paving stone on the road to Heresy,” she cautioned the Palatine. “If Cameron's loyalty falters, or, if he is the victim of evil council, he has just developed a weapon that every Guardsman can fire. This won't defeat our armor in a single shot, but concentrated fire...”

Constance crossed her arms over her chest. “I'm not an Inquisitor, I'm a soldier, and arguably a bad one. I don't know that I trust myself to be able to distinguish a heretic from a poorly spoken, but loyal fool.”

“The Inquisition feels otherwise,” Abigail replied. “A rite of selection was preformed, your name was selected. There is an Inquisitor in my office, right now.”

“Canoness-Preceptor, once more, I humbly beg that you...”

“Be silent!” the Canoness commanded and Constance's mouth snapped shut. She sighed, and let her eyes bore holes in Constance's as she took the younger woman by her arms. “You wish to preform an act of penance, to atone for what you consider your failings, here is your chance. I charge you, in the name of our Emperor that you are no longer a member of the Order of the Valorous Heart. Effective immediately, you are transferred to the Order Famulous and charged to found an Order Minoris on the world of Thuria. You may, in time and with success be promoted to the rank of Cannoness, however in the meantime, Palatine Constance, you will recruit from among the sisters here available for a new posting, or recovering at this hospital who are called to assist you in the establishment of a new order, and released by their sisters from care. Established on Thuria you will watch over Duke Cameron and House Wren. You will ever remind him of where his loyalty should lie, and advise him and his house so that he may become the Hero of the Empire he is destined to be.”

“I am not an advisor, Reverend Mother, but...”

“It is done, Palatine,” Abigail declared. “The Emperor commands and you will obey.”

Constance bowed her head. “I hear and obey the will of the Emperor.”

Abigail let a little smile tug at the corner of her lips as she squeezed the arms of the younger woman. “The Emperor guide you as you guide House Wren. And Constance, if these weapons are being made in large numbers, be certain some find their way into the arsenals of our Order.” She paused for a moment, then smirked. “You wanted to atone, here is my judgment.”

“I'd rather face down a battalion of Orks with just a chain sword!”

“I know,” the Canoness said. “It would be easier.”

Constance swallowed. “So, not only am I to be an advisor, but a spy as well? How many masters do I serve on this mission, Reverend Mother?”

“You serve our Emperor, and our Order,” Winters replied. “That loyalty is most important. Come, I'll introduce you to the little snake that is biting your heel, and make you familiar with the sisters who are here, available for a new posting and can help you.”

Constance was a great believer in first impressions. She had, over her years in the Adepta Sororitas made certain whenever she arrived at a new posting, received a new commander, or any other official matter that her kit was immaculate, that she was early and there was no fault to find with her or those who answered to her. As the years went by, she began to judge her subordinates in the same manner and these judgments began to be born out on the battle field. A sister who couldn't arrive on time for something as simple as a meal would be late to rendezvous in combat, endangering all on the offensive line. A sister who did not look after her gear would always be down for maintenance at critical times. Thirty years had cemented to Constance that the first impression was who a person really was.

She decided she hated Inquisitor Jonas Merle the second she laid eyes on him.

Hated how slovenly he looked in his unkempt and ill fitting uniform. Hated the sneering, lecherous look on his face as she and the Reverend Mother returned to her office, a look many men without the sense to know how in danger they were to wear their fantasies on their face in a convent of Adepta Sororitas. Constance had been his physical equal since she was twelve. With thirty years of killing under her belt, she could coolly murder the nasty little man, while giving a block of instruction lecture to novice Sororitas in Schola on how she was killing him and why.

“Sister Constance,” he had drawled, his tongue too far out of his mouth in an unsettling manner. “It's a delight to make your acquaintance.”

He presented pallid little hand which the Palatine only stared at for a moment, then turned her eyes back to him without touching it. “Inquisitor, it is my duty to warn you, I have a strong feeling I will end up killing you. You may wish to request a different assignment before I have cause to act on my feeling.”

“Er, thank you,” he replied, withdrawing his hand. “It is said that to win the friendship of a Sororitas is the hardest accomplishment in the galaxy.”

“Indeed,” Constance replied with great weight. “You suspect Duke Cameron of heresy? Why?”

“Suspect?'' he asked around his off putting sneer. “The Inquisition suspects all. Only the dead are truly trustworthy.” His beady eyes darted between the Reverend Mother and the Palatine. “I see that Canoness Winters has already briefed you.”

“I have received my orders and I acknowledged them,” Constance replied. “If you have information necessary for me to complete my mission, speak; or not as you please. Withholding it will give me cause to kill you.”

“You require time to recruit your retinue?”

“I will have a team assembled and ready to mobilize within two days,” she declared.

The Inquisitor smiled. “Then we shall speak in two days. You may go, Palatine.” Constance stepped forward, crowding into the little man's personal space, head and shoulders taller than him. Pinned against his chair, he had the choice to sit down and be loomed over, or stay on his feet. He chose to remain standing.

“Never, ever make the mistake of thinking I am subordinate to you,” she declared in a deadly quiet voice. “Untold millions have died because of nasty little men like you and the lies they whisper in the darkness. Walk in the light of the Emperor, or by the Golden Throne I will purge you, Inquisitor, come what may to me and I will sleep well that night.”

“The...the Emperor Protects!” he stammered.

“Yes,” drawled Constance. “Yes, he does.” She turned her eyes to Canoness Winters and noted the little smile of approval on her face. “By your leave, Reverend Mother?”

“My adjutant will conduct you to sufficient spaces as you may interrogate your new followers,” the Canoness declared. “Go in the Light of the Emperor, Palatine.” Constance turned, bowed to the Reverend Mother, and left, the white robes of a supplicant billowing around her feet as she did so. Abigail watched her depart, then turned and fixed her gaze on the Inquisitor. “I warned you,” she declared ominously.

Inquisitor Merle laughed an uneasy laugh. “If she is half as firm with Duke Cameron, my duty will surely be done!”

“That depends on his grace,” Abigail replied slyly.

Even sitting in her bed, Ruth was all but insufferable. Sent to the Convent of the Healing Heart to recover after being wounded, the new Battle Sister had been awarded the rank of Elohiem Advance over the Sisters in her squad for attacking the bunker that had them all pinned down, knowing she would be wounded in the process of it. The garnet that had been inset in the fleur-de-lis that had been pinned to her pillow had pride of place as her two squad sisters entered the ward to visit her. “Oh, what a gold brick!” Mary declared. “One little scratch and she gets promoted!”

With great pride, Ruth polished imaginary lint off the award. “Oh, don't be jealous, Mary. I'm sure you'll measure up some day.”

“Oh, well, somebody had to be Gretchen's brown nose!” Jennifer shot back, managing to put down her friend and their squad leader. “It must be so tough eating ice cream and laying around while we're doing all the work!”

“What work?” Ruth replied with a laugh. “We're all on after action TDS!”

From out side of the ward, Gretchen discretely kept an eye on her squad where they couldn't see her smile at their antics and her pleasure at them beginning to gel as a team. Now they were blooded, the maiden outing behind them where they had found they could trust their training, their gear and their sisters. She was glad that Ruth was the only patient in the ward so they could be loud and blow off the pent up stress of having seen the elephant and come out the other side.

That just left where things were going.

Gretchen was concerned that soon after they'd arrived to check on Ruth on their way to their next duty station their orders had been countermanded and the entire squad had been put on detached service to the hospital convent. Something was brewing and Gretchen was concerned she had no idea what. She noted the sister hospitalier had returned to the desk that she was leaning on and asked, “Ruth's wounds serious?”

The nurse smiled as she shook her head. “No, Sister Superior,” she assured Gretchen. “Elohiem Ruth is fine. In fact, she will be transferred to normal quarters this afternoon, though she'll be on recuperative duty for a few weeks.”

“Thanks,” Gretchen told her.

The nurse looked at her screen and frowned. “Sister Superior? Are you Gretchen Wycroff?”

Gretchen turned to face her across the desk. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

“I have an alert in the system,” the nurse replied. “You're wanted in the administrative wing.” She turned and pointed out the window to a large tower about a third of the way on the other side of the convent. “It's in the tower there, room two twenty seven. It's marked urgent.”

“Thank you, sister,” she replied. With a final look at her squad, she said, “feel free to throw them out if they get too loud.”

The nurse smiled. “They're not bothering anyone.”

Gretchen nodded before she headed towards administrative wing, wondering what was making the butterflies in her stomach so active.